


Smiling

by moth2fic



Category: Spooks
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-19
Updated: 2006-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jools is bested in a joust, Ruth and Zoe share a leather fetish, and Malcolm's bedside cabinet holds a dark secret. Total fluff, set somewhere in a Whitehall shared by these characters!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smiling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a ficathon exhange. Tigertrapped asked for Malcolm and Colin (though not necessarily slash), Jools Siviter, Ruth and the contents of Malcolm's bedside cabinet. I obliged.
> 
> The characters belong to the BBC and I just play with them.
> 
> I can't remember who did the great beta job on this but think it might have been Fledge.

Part 1. Whitehall.

Malcolm looked moodily at Ruth. Why on earth were women attracted to the less stable members of the male species? Why did solid and respectable and worthy cut no ice? Not that he regarded Harry as disreputable or Tom as unworthy, and Danny was certainly physically solid but one had to say they were somehow on the rakish side. Less than totally dependable in terms of long life, pensions and mortgages. Less safe.

But Ruth had eyes for Harry. And if those eyes strayed, they strayed to equally unsuitable men. Never in his direction.  
He sighed and returned to the paperwork in which he was supposed to be immersed. He would never understand women.

Malcolm was feeling more sorry for himself than usual. Everyone else seemed to be involved in exciting relationships, or potential relationships, or simply exciting events. He went home each night to his comfortable flat, fed Scatterbrain, his cat, watched the news and wished life would open and let him in.

He tried. God knows he tried. But somehow, dressing other than conservatively escaped him. He tended to reduce earth-shattering news to the components that would affect the price of petrol or the availability of coffee. His conversation was dull, not because he wasn't interested in all sorts of things, but because he was shy. He was always afraid others would not want to hear what he had to say, so he didn't say it. Always afraid they wouldn't accept invitations so he didn't offer them. Sometimes afraid they wouldn't return a smile, so he rarely smiled at them. Well, sometimes at Colin, and occasionally at Ruth. Who both smiled back.

He didn't wish, even in his wildest, most private moments, that he could take the place of the front men, the Toms and the Dannys of the world. And the Harrys. For Harry had been one of those bright young blades with a penchant for derring-do. Promoted to management but still one of the boys. No, Malcolm didn't wish to be like them. Nor did he envy them their lifestyle, or their insouciance or their danger. Especially not their danger. But he did wish women, or men for that matter, would look his way from time to time. Would move his way. Would quell the yearning he had to join with someone. Ruth, for preference, but almost anyone would do.

Paperwork. And no looking at Ruth for an hour. He glanced at his watch and noted the time. Squared his shoulders. Picked up his pen.

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Colin was muttering. Scattering around the lab. Frantically picking up something here, putting down something there. Making Malcolm tired just to look at him. Zoe was standing at the door, leaning against the jamb, arms folded in her habitual stance, a small smile playing about her lips.

'I thought you said it was ready.'

'It is.'

'Only Ruth and I based the entire mission on it.'

'It's ready. It just needs . . .' With a cry of glee, Colin unearthed a component of some sort and fitted it into a contraption. That was the only way you could talk about Colin's inventions. Using words like contraption, whatsit, thingumajig. None of them had names. You couldn't go round referring to ' the gadget that lets you watch people through their bathroom mirror provided you have access to the house next door.' Or ' the thing you wear under your lapel that lets you listen to the men in the next room when you turn it on by hitting a glass with your finger nail.' So people talked about contraptions without giving details. And Colin always knew which contraption they meant. And Malcolm felt exhausted listening to them. Really, he preferred computers and code machines and suchlike. Things with beautiful mathematical surprises that filled his days with a kind of sunshine. Things that didn't talk or move so much.

Ruth had joined Zoe at the door and was fussing with her handbag. Or at least with a handbag. It probably wasn't Zoe's, or Ruth's. It probably belonged to the Department. Although heaven knows why the Department had to buy handbags when all the women seemed to have upwards of twenty apiece. Presumably they minded having them blown up, or even having little holes made for cameras and bugs and guns and knives and . . .

This one was dark brown glossy leather with bronze buckles and clips. An expensive looking bag. One he'd have been happy to buy for a woman but didn't think the Department should spend money on. Colin seemed to think otherwise. He was explaining something in the lining of the bag to Zoe and Ruth. Their heads were close together, blonde and brown. Danger Woman and Backroom Girl. That's how Malcolm thought of them. Both beautiful, like the handbag. Classy, expensive, and eminently desirable. And not, not ever, for him.

'So you see. All you have to do is take a powder compact or a nail file out of this little zipped pocket in this section here, and that triggers the device.' Backroom Boy seemed to enjoy explaining.

'And you're sure she can pick up everything he says?'

'Everything.'

Ruth looked pleased but less than sure. Zoe was already transferring the contents of another bag, a black shoulder bag, into the glossy leather.

'Zoe, you will be careful. This is MI6 we're talking about, not some diplomat or businessman.'

''We want to know what they're up to, don't we?'

'Need to know.'

'Well then.' Zoe handed her shoulder bag to Ruth and picked up the new glossy. Colin beamed. Ruth shrugged. Malcolm sighed. And Zoe left the others standing as she headed for the exit, head high, all dressed up, and somewhere important to go.

'I don't suppose you'd care to explain? No, thought not.' Malcolm pre-empted whatever Colin had been going to say and returned to his desk. Ruth passed him and in passing said lightly.

'Need to know, Malcolm. Need to know.'

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Part 2. Whitehall

Next morning there was a flurry. Zoe was holding forth. Proud and guilty at the same time. Ruth was pleased and worried; Harry, long suffering, patient and in charge. But there was a flurry, definitely. And Harry turned back to his office.

Ruth and Zoe were almost shouting, not at each other but at the world at large.

'I got what we wanted, that's the main thing. I got the evidence. We know he's going behind our backs. We know they're not playing on the same side.'

'But he made you! He knew it was your bag! '

'Maybe, but he didn't say anything. He daren't.'

'Where's the tape?'

'Harry has it.'

'And the copy?' Zoe tried to look innocent and failed. Grinned at Ruth and handed over a tiny tape. Ruth grinned back and carried her prize back to her desk. Then looked up and frowned as Jools Siviter slammed into the building and charged in to confront Harry's like a . . .like a . . .Malcolm tried to think what he was like and failed. Something very large and wild, anyway.

There was a further flurry in Harry's office. Although flurry seemed too delicate a word. A rumble, perhaps, or a blizzard. Then Jools stormed out again, yelling before he left, for all to hear,

'I'll see him drummed out of the service for this. Stripped of his pension. Disgraced.' Then he left the building in a whirlwind of anger leaving the atmosphere shaken and dark.

Harry's face was the darkest of all. Then he called Colin to his office. Malcolm could see them talking. See Harry gesticulating. See Colin's shoulders drooping. See that this was no briefing or debriefing. See that this was some eddy in the aftermath of the whirlwind. An eddy that threatened to drown his friend.

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They pieced it all together, between them. Zoe had tried to entrap the MI6 officer who was playing fast and loose with all their lives. Had recorded what he was saying to the 'other' side. Had been noticed. And before she could put in her report and her complaint, the officer had gone crying to Jools. Who would protect his own, right or wrong. (Especially if his own was a handsome young man with a brilliant future). Who had come screaming to Harry and pulled rank.

The upshot was bad news for Colin. Jools never tangled with women. Not even the Zoes who almost, not quite but almost, had the status of honorary men. So he went for the nearest man in line. The one who'd set up Zoe's bag. The inventor and installer of the contraption. Colin.

Colin was white as paper and shaking uncontrollably. Apparently Jools had demanded his dismissal. With a comment in his records that would ensure he never worked in the public sector again. Maybe not in the private one either. And the removal of his pension rights into the bargain.

It was Malcolm's turn to storm into Harry's office. Harry was apologetic but there was nothing he could do. A senior officer could do exactly as he pleased, and this was what was pleasing Jools today. There was more than a suggestion that they could be glad there was no physical violence involved. Jools had a reputation. Or at least his bullyboys did. Malcolm saw red. Literally. One part of him was fascinated to note that he really was seeing things through a red haze. Another carried him calmly to his desk and then to the rack where he'd hung his coat. Past the front desk where he explained that he needed to go out for a while. Down the street and into the headquarters of their sister organisation. MI6.

Sir Galahad, armoured in righteousness. Riding the steed of fury.

He could be icily persuasive when he wanted to be. Certainly he persuaded Jools' secretary that he needed a moment of her master's time.

Faced with Siviter, the ice melted. Boiled. Turned him into a raging cauldron who spoke to Jools without a care for his own future, his own safety, anything but Colin's welfare. Told Jools just what he thought of bullying tactics. What the press would think. What a select committee of the house would be likely to think. How it might all reflect on the government of the day, and in turn on the services and of course on Jools Siviter.

Jools was definitely not used to being spoken to like that. The last time he remembered being the recipient of a similar tirade was at school, well before the sixth form, at that. And Malcolm's manner was that of an angry headmaster. Very angry indeed.

There was, of course, the option of including Malcolm in the dismissal process. But how many backroom boffins could he have dismissed without calling the service as a whole into question? Violent tactics wouldn't work here, either. There was no excuse, as there might be if a spy got out of line. No explanation involving foreign powers or criminal gangs. The British didn't go in for poisoned umbrellas. Yet. And certainly not for the entire bus queue.

Besides, he had to admire the man's nerve. Very quietly, very suavely, he agreed that he had perhaps overreacted. Agreed to speak to Harry and withdraw the demands. And showed the still seething Malcolm out of his office, without an apology but safe in the knowledge that he had got what he had come for. Wondered, fleetingly, whether to offer the fellow a place in MI6 then dismissed the idea regretfully. Made a phone call to Harry and dismissed the whole thing from his mind.

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Malcolm was welcomed back like a hero. Exactly like the danger freaks when they returned from a successful mission. There were congratulations and huge smiles all round. He felt giddy with pleasure. Harry seemed positively impressed.

He hung his coat up and headed for his desk, passing Ruth on the way.

'Well done, Malcolm. ' Her smile warmed him.

'I don't suppose you'd care to join me in a small celebration?'

'Oh Malcolm, I'm so sorry!' Her eyes spoke of genuine regret but she hadn't even checked out the details of the invitation. Somehow, the shining armour rusted a little. Obviously pensions weren't sexy - either literally or in the new twenty first century meaning of the word.

Colin, however, seemed to think otherwise. He was bubbling with gratitude.

'I don't know how to thank you.'

'There's no need.'

'I can't believe anyone would do that for me.'

'Of course they would, Anyone would have. It just happened to be me.'

'But nobody else did. You're my saviour. Did you know that?' Malcolm laughed to cover his embarrassment and Colin gave him an enormous grin. Then was saying something about not being able to repay him but maybe taking him out for dinner. And to his utter amazement, from somewhere behind the safety of Sir Galahad's visor, Malcolm heard himself saying,

'How about me taking you out to dinner instead?'

Some time during the ensuing silence, Colin blushed, nodded and thanked him with his eyes. And his brain, spinning in lazy, swooping circles, came up with a date and a venue and even made his voice suggest them. Tomorrow. An Italian place in Covent Garden. He phoned there and then and booked a table for eight o'clock before either of them could think twice. Gave his credit card number as security for the booking. Then lost most of his nerve and took refuge in work.

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Part 3. Heading for Covent Garden

Scatterbrain sat on the bed and watched him go through every garment he owned, rejecting most of them as too old fashioned, too tight, too loose or simply too often worn for work. Her tiny pink nose sniffed at his leather jacket. She turned her calico head away from cord trousers. Malcolm sighed, and agreed with her. What on earth was he going to wear? For this - date? Eventually, he settled on a fairly conservative pair of dark trousers, with a deep green shirt and a tweed sports jacket. It was the best he could do. Scatterbrain didn't seem impressed but she stretched out and let him tickle her tummy so he heaved another sigh, of relief this time, and hung the chosen garments outside the wardrobe, ready for tomorrow night.

Then he fired up the internet. Wikipedia. He needed information and he needed it fast. He read until the early hours, checking and rechecking. Stopping to consolidate his knowledge. Wondering if the petroleum jelly he used for winter -chapped hands would do. Wondering if he was wasting his time. If anything would happen anyway. But it was always best to be prepared.

Then he sat with the cat on his knee, stroking her ears so hard that she miaoued her displeasure and jumped down, stalking to the kitchen, demanding treats in recompense. While he wondered what he had got himself into, and why. And then wondered why he hadn't thought of it before.

When he did get to bed, he couldn't sleep at first. His head was full of visions and hopes and swirling, almost formless desires. When he slept he dreamed, and woke early, and tidied the flat in a daze. He might not have time in the evening. Someone, somewhere, could surely make certain that today they could finish at a normal time? That he could reach that time calmly, at least on the outside? He fed Scatterbrain and left her with water and dry biscuits, just in case.

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Work was calm. The entire day was uneventful. Colin was extremely busy somewhere at the back of the lab. No one wanted anything. Hometime crept up on him and he was half way to the flat before he started to panic. The what-ifs were endless. What if Colin didn't turn up? What if he did, but hadn't read the meaning into the date that Malcolm had meant? What if he, himself, hadn't meant what he thought he'd meant, when it came to it? What if he had, but couldn't go through with it? What if. . .?

He showered and dressed carefully in the chosen clothes. Ruffled Scatterbrain's ears and told her to be a good cat. Took a desperately deep breath and called a taxi. No use driving - he was going to need to drink.

Colin was already there. He looked younger than usual. The designer jeans and the silk blouson jacket altered his appearance in an extraordinary way. For the better. Not that Malcolm disliked his 'normal' appearance. On the contrary. His hair was obviously just washed, and looked soft, inviting. Malcolm struggled to place the biggest difference then realised - no glasses. He let his eyes wonder over his friend. Away from the rarefied atmosphere of work, Colin looked almost handsome. Not in the hard, risky way of the front-line spooks, of course. But in a softer, more welcoming, everyday way, that Malcolm liked. A lot.

They greeted each other warily and Malcolm ordered drinks while they studied the menu. He had to read some of it for Colin. Leaving your glasses at home had its drawbacks. Apparently pride came before menu reading. Spaghetti Carbonara for him. Colin chose Lasagne. They both drank wine - a deep rich red from Puglia. Conversation stopped and started and stopped again. The latest films, books, songs. Nothing about work. Nothing about colleagues. Nothing about yesterday.

As they ate, they became aware of an Arrival. From the way the waiters were reacting, it deserved the capital letter. Then Malcolm saw Colin's face pale and turned to see the cause. Jools Siviter was being shown to a table, accompanied by a blond young man. He noticed Malcolm and Colin at almost the same time Malcolm saw him. And glared. But Malcolm glared back. Jools sized up the situation and gave a rueful grin. So the wild beast was protecting its mate! No wonder he was fierce. He gave a slight bow with an even slighter lift of an eyebrow and turned away. One wolf acknowledging another's territory. Malcolm breathed again, and Colin's face resumed its normal colour.

After a delicious dessert of semi freddo, which could have been cardboard for all the attention Malcolm gave it, the waiter was muttering something about coffee. Malcolm dragged every ounce of courage from somewhere at the back of his subconscious.

'I thought we could . . .'

'We needn't have coffee.' Colin spoke quickly.

'I have some . . .'

'Yes.'

The waiter called them a taxi and Malcolm dealt with the bill. Helped Colin on with his jacket. Brushed his fingertips across the other man's neck. Hoped it would seem almost accidental. Wished he had iced water to cool his suddenly burning fingers - and face. While they waited, he went to the 'gents'. Put coins in the dispenser, his cheeks reddening. Nobody was watching, but if they were, would they know? That he was going to do it? Or just that he hoped? He put the packet in his pocket and went back into the restaurant. Claimed the taxi. Told the driver his address and sat back, unable to speak, or even glance at his companion.

 

Part 4 Home

His flat was in central London. Well, they all lived in central London. Nobody could afford to be far from the office, or, conversely, far from home.

Scatterbrain met them with a demand for petting and food. Colin picked her up and murmured sweet nothings into the fur behind her ears. A cat lover then. Malcolm opened a small pouch of 'posh cat nosh' then put the kettle on and started to measure coffee into the cafetiere. Colin let Scatterbrain reach her bowl and stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway.

'You could choose some music. It's in the lounge.' Hardly likely to be anywhere else but he was talking for the sake of it. Colin turned away and he heard him clicking open the plastic box of a CD. He poured hot water onto the coffee grounds and held onto the sink while he waited. A deep breath. Now or never. Oh God.

Taking the coffee into the lounge, he heard the first strains of a Queen number and stared at his guest. Well, of course he liked it. It was his CD. But that Colin should have chosen that, in the space of five minutes . . .

'I always really liked Freddie Mercury.' Colin's voice was low but very definite. Malcolm found himself putting the coffee down and grabbing his friend.

They fell onto the settee and he threw caution to the winds, leaning in for a first kiss. Colin's lips weren't as narrow as they looked. And they were very soft under his. And they opened obediently. The kiss lasted a long time. Eventually, it occurred to him that it would be good to remove some of the clothing that separated them. He thought it might be difficult but he seemed to have help. Then it dawned on him that the bedroom would be altogether more comfortable for what he had in mind, and he half carried, half dragged Colin through to the bed. Colin didn't seem to mind. Lay there, half-naked, with a tiny smile on those lips. All sharp angles and soft shadows. All invitation. All his.

Soon they were both completely naked and completely close. And firm gentle hands were guiding his fingers, and his cock. He wondered vaguely who was in charge, then decided it didn't matter. Except that despite the reading, he hadn't really the faintest idea how to proceed.

'Have you ever . .?'

'Done this before? Yes. Ages ago. There's nobody just now. Truly.' Colin's face was anxious and he kissed him reassuringly.

'You see, I haven't . . 'Then, in case that sounded as though he wasn't wholly committed,  
' BUTOHMYGOD IWANTYOU!' The answer was further pressure on his fingers and a happy sigh.

'You know what we need?'

'I'm not entirely ignorant!' He reached his jacket on the floor and put the condoms on the cupboard beside the bed. Then twisted awkwardly to undo the door. Rocked the flimsy piece of furniture in his haste. Everything tumbled out. The books he was reading - Alan Hollinghurst's 'The Swimming pool Library' - chosen for its literary merit, not its gay theme. Lynne Truss had written 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves' especially to lull him to sleep on difficult nights. There was a polythene bag of catnip mice, hidden from Scatterbrain in the only place she didn't go. There was a tie that his mother had given him for Christmas, that he hated, that he hadn't quite got round to giving to charity. A packet of Ibuprofen. A watch that didn't work. Three bars of extra dark chocolate testified to his penchant for midnight snacks. And the jar of 'Vaseline'. Of course. Last, but by no means least.

Embarrassed, humiliated, he turned to apologise. Colin was giggling. And with such a shining look in his eyes. Suddenly all Malcolm's fears and inhibitions melted away, and he was grinning back, and they dissolved into shared laughter and loving and a long, leisurely fuck.

Not that it was all plain sailing. He was terrified at first. Afraid of hurting him. Either instantly, or by tearing the delicate skin and creating problems. Wikipedia had been very serious on the subject. He tried to be slow and gentle, and he watched Colin's face carefully. Gradually saw how much the other man was enjoying it and began to relax. Thrust harder and almost drowned in his own pleasure as Colin came, hot and hard against his chest. Lay still, afterwards, mentally shuddering with relief and a kind of shy pride. Held him triumphantly in his arms as they both drifted into sleep. Dreamed of jousts and tournaments and rescued damsels who all turned out to have Colin's face and voice and fingers.

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When they woke up, Scatterbrain had joined them, tucked between their noses, her tail lazily tickling their throats. A catnip mouse was in shreds on the pillow. Colin grinned.

'Love me, love my cat?'

'Something like that.' He swatted her gently out of the way, only half realising what they'd said as he claimed a morning kiss. Which, of course, turned into more than a kiss, and made them late for work, as well as depriving Scatterbrain of more than a very hastily thrown down breakfast.

As they headed for Whitehall together. Malcolm could have faced the entire world. For once, pensions and probity had won.

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Ruth prided herself on her sensitivity. She recognised the new 'status' of the couple, even before Colin swore about leaving his glasses somewhere and Malcolm collapsed in laughter. She smiled twice, first a secret smile to herself, for noticing and for being pleased for them, then a smile for them, to welcome them to the new day.

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> A year after I had written this the BBC decided to make my pairing canon but did so in dark and dire circumstances. Typical Spooks, really. I wrote a sequel/postscript to Smiling and those who are interested will find it in the story Elegy, posted here at AO3. If you prefer happy endings you might prefer to ignore it.


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